


Willing Submission

by notaparty



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Batgirl!Steph/Red Hood!Jason, F/M, JaySteph - Freeform, Sex Pollen, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notaparty/pseuds/notaparty
Summary: Stephanie doesn't expect to run into Jason when she's undercover as a stripper. She also doesn't expect any sex pollen.But she gets both.Batgirl!Steph/Red Hood!Jason.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown/Jason Todd
Comments: 16
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another fic that I intended to be short, but hoo boy, it is not. It's unrelated to my other JaySteph fics, and basically a fancy, long vehicle for smut. A smut limo? A smut limo.
> 
> While there is sex pollen involved, I didn't include the dubcon archive warning for reasons that'll become clear later. But either way, if being drugged and potential assault are sensitive topics for you, I suggest avoiding this fic.

Jason rolls into the parking lot of Papi’s Diner on his sleek motorcycle, his red helmet glinting in the neon lights of Papi’s sign. He comes to a stop in a spot that’s technically not official parking and takes off his helmet, nodding in my direction.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I say. And because I’m an idiot, I add, “Motorcycle…man.”

Holy. Fuck.

I’m totally rusty with the whole flirting thing, but that was a whole other level. I need a sinkhole to open up underneath me fifteen minutes ago.

But to be fair, Jason does the whole hot guy movie moment thing when he takes his helmet off, raking his hand through his dark curly hair and looking dangerous yet sexy. There’s no way that wouldn’t turn me into a brainless puddle almost instantly. Even without my stupid crush on him, I would have had to acknowledge that he was hot. I have eyes, after all.

Jason, being the low-key sweetheart he is, just snorts instead of staring at me like I have two heads and/or laughing openly at me. He puts his motorcycle helmet in the back of his bike and hops off.

“Fancy seeing you here too, Blondie.” He gives his hair another fluff. “You coming or going?”

“Coming. Just got off patrol and wanted to get something to eat.”

“Want to eat together?” He asks.

“Sure, why not?” I say, as if I haven’t been hoping for this since this morning. Well, yesterday morning, to be technical about it.

We walk in — he holds the door for me— and get what’s become our usual booth in the back corner. Over the past four months since we stumbled into each other on a case that got dicey and helped each other out, we’ve been grabbing food here. At first it was just accidental, with him rolling up while I was in the middle of eating, or vice versa, but about two months in it became an unofficially official thing. Four-ish in the morning, post-patrol. This booth. Breakfast foods. Me trying, but failing miserably to suss out how he felt about me.

Failing oh so miserably.

I guess I can’t pass him a note where he could check off a box — do you like me? Or no? But the thought of flat out asking him makes me sweaty in the worst places. I’ve had two official boyfriends in my life: Dean, who bounced when I told him I was pregnant, and Tim, who I finally stopped having an off and on thing with three years ago (though thankfully, we’re friends now.) Besides them, I had two one night stands with other dudes in college, both of whom were pretty bad in bed, not that I had much to compare them to.

So now I’m 23 and don’t know how to get a guy’s attention without throwing a brick in his face to get his attention or letting him make the first tipsy move at a shitty house party. An unexpected side-effect of being a masked hero for way too much of my young life.

We order our usuals and sit back in the booth, staring at each other for a second. The eye contact makes me feel woozy, but I refuse to look away.

“Easy night tonight?” He asks, his pale blue eyes scanning over my face.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your face is intact. Your hands are too. And you aren’t walking with a limp.” He thanks the waiter for dropping off our drinks and dumps a shitload of sugar into his coffee.

“It was easy on my body, but not on my mind,” I say, downing my orange juice. He does the thing he does when he wants me to go on, raising his eyebrow with a scar running through it. “Just a rough case. I haven’t been getting anywhere, so I have to escalate it a bit.”

An understatement. I’m stabbing away at this case surrounding a strip club and have hardly made a dent. Nothing is explaining why so many of the girls who work at this particular club end up dead. Not murdered, from what we can tell — just girls who were healthy one day and gone the next, their skin blue from a lack of oxygen without any signs that they’d been strangled.

The victims were usually alone in hotel rooms, their apartments, or in cars. It looks like they literally just dropped dead. Their tox screens only show that they all have slightly elevated white blood cell counts, which could be from anything. The lack of evidence and the non-violent way the women had died made GCPD put this on the backburner, which makes it perfect for me to tackle.

I’ve already briefed Babs on my surveillance for the night, which was once again pretty fruitless. All of the victims went in to work, did their thing, and left with a customer. The only vaguely suspicious footage I have is of young, beautiful women trying to hop on the dicks of these boring ass old dudes really aggressively, sometimes succeeding before they even got out of the parking lot.

There aren’t any other common threads between any of the men besides the fact that they’d visited the club and paid for the women to entertain them behind closed doors.

My blood simmers, thinking of one of the men I shook down earlier this week. He went home with a woman who worked at the club one night and came back the next. Since I hadn’t seen the woman come into work, I instantly went to the worst possible scenario. I pinned him against the wall and asked him what the hell he’d done.

The grossest smirk came across his face as he told me, in graphic detail, of all the wild things she’d done in bed and how much she wanted him. He talked about her like she was hardly a person, and clearly didn’t give a fuck about her after she finished her job. He’d sent her home around midnight without a second thought. I got a little bit too heated and knocked him out before I could ask him more questions. At least he confirmed that everything was consensual to some degree, at least in terms of the women getting the jobs. The women got paid directly, with the management taking a smaller cut than they did from the dances.

Still, my rage at the disrespectful piece of shit gave me another kick in the ass to dig deeper. But there isn’t a way to go any deeper unless I go in. As a stripper, and not the kind who only took her top off.

Dancing? Great, love it. Being naked? Great, love it…in my own apartment.

Together? In front of a bunch of guys of varying levels of creepiness?

Oof.

The things I do for this job.

But hell, if there’s anyone I’d pose as a stripper for, it’s for strippers whose deaths people don’t seem to give a fuck about.

“Is this a bat business situation?” Jason asks, sucking a little coffee off his spoon and tucking it neatly on the saucer it came with.

“Yeah.”

I’m not supposed to tell non-Bats about my cases, even though Jason is kind of on the bubble at this point. We can ask him for help if it’s life or death, but nothing less. The fact that we hang out frequently makes Babs raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say much beyond that.

“That blows,” Jason says.

“Easy night for you too?” I ask, looking at him more to check him out than check for injuries.

“Mmhm,” he grunts.

How does a guy who basically kicks ass for a living have such a gorgeous face? Then again, part of what makes him hot to me is the fact that he’s not perfect. His nose has definitely been broken a few times, and he has some scars here and there. But that doesn’t take away from _his jaw line though_ and his eyes. And that’s not even covering his body.

“Steph?” Jason waves his hand in front of my face. “You alright? You just zoned out hard for a second.”

“What?” I blink. “Oh, sorry. Just…tired.”

Thankfully our food comes moments later. Another reason why Papi’s is the best — they don’t make you wait. Jason digs into his eggs and bacon. He holds his fork and knife like Bruce and most of Europe does — with his fork in his left hand and his knife in the right the whole time — which seems weird if you don’t know him, but makes total sense if you do. He has more Bruce habits than he’d probably ever admit, even with a gun to his head.

“Anything exciting happen?” I ask once we both get enough food into our faces.

“Ehn, not really. Just confusing surveillance.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “And a little bit of ass kicking.”

“Is it Red Hood business?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“Less mysterious than you’d think.” He shrugs. “It’s just shitty people taking advantage of women.”

“Unfortunately common,” I say, nodding in understanding.

“Mmhm.” He sighs heavily, the irritation on his face clear before he brightens. Well, as much as he brightens, anyway. “Oh, before I forget — I got this pen for you.”

“You did?” I practically squeal, watching him dig into his jacket pockets. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way, because I’m a man of my word and I hate losing bets.” He puts down the pink pen. “Boom.”

I pick it up and inspect it. It has a pink casing with a little plastic Hello Kitty sticking out of the end. It’s thick, since there are five different pen colors in it. I snag a napkin and click down the pink one. It’s glittery gel ink, just like I’d remembered.

I don’t know how we got on the topic of nostalgia a couple weeks back, but I told him about my favorite pen _ever_ from middle school. I journaled obsessively since this was the time that life at home really shit the bed, and used up every bit of ink. I was devastated since I couldn’t get another one back then. Jason asked me why I didn’t just buy a new one now and I said that they didn’t make them anymore. He bet me that they did, and here we are.

“I can’t believe you fucking found one of these,” I say, feeling a flush of emotion. “How did you find it?”

“A magician never reveals how his tricks work.” He shrugs, putting his hands back into his pockets and looking down at the table.

I look down at the pen. He remembered, even though it was such a casual bet. He’d thought about me outside of this weird place and time. And obviously had put in a lot of effort to bring me a little piece of my childhood that was actually kind of good in the middle of a dumpster fire.

I cannot tear up over a fucking Hello Kitty pen, but I’m probably going to tear up about a Hello Kitty pen when I get back home.

Oh god, I really like him. This is so bad.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat and putting a hand on the table with a smack like he’s trying to break the spell of whatever just happened. “You want to hear about this fucked up drug den I busted up last week? The guy had a fucking Komodo dragon in a one-bedroom on the other side of town.”

“Fuck yeah, I do,” I say. I tuck the pen into my bag for now. Maybe I could try to segue back into the topic another time, but tonight might not be the night.

***

Just from the outside, it’s easy to see there was nothing good going on in this strip club. It’s a squat, dumpy building near the airport, between a check cashing place and a gas station. I nearly bust my ass in the parking lot with all the cracks in the concrete and spurts of sad grass trying to grow out of them. Its bright, neon sign, which had to cost more than the building’s rent per month there, reads “FULLY NOOD DANCERS! PRIVATE LAP DANCES!” in big letters with “Flying High Strip Club” underneath.

Kudos for the airport tie in, I guess?

The inside isn’t much better. The carpet hasn’t been cleaned in decades, probably, stained with bodily fluids and alcohol, masked with a sickly citrus cleanser of some sort. The faux-leather booths are falling apart, and the things that looked semi-put together are held up with tape and hope. Some people are delivering bottles and bottles of alcohol, which are probably one of their biggest income sources.

Nothing says “ballin’ hard” like paying $200 for bottle service in the butt crack of Gotham.

I’ve been on cocktail waitress duty in the week I’ve worked there. It’s frustrating since only the women who danced could get access to the area in the back where they sell private dances (and sexual services on the down low.)

I tried to make the most of it by flirting and talking with anyone who could give me any information. I got jack shit besides weirdly sad conversations with lonely men, creepy comments, and a couple of boob honks that the bouncers did nothing to stop. I couldn’t exactly break the clientele’s collarbones out on the floor, so I just had to take it. Ugh.

Just walking inside makes me feel sticky, and the customers aren’t even in yet. I say hello to a few of the girls who I’ve gotten to know on my way to the back dressing room, my outfit— a black bra with sheer cups, silver heart-shaped pasties, and a matching panty/garter belt/stockings situation, all under a skimpy sheer negligee— weighing heavily in my canvas tote bag.

Tonight’s the night I’ve been waiting for. I have to dance, which involves getting, as the sign outside said, “FULLY NOOD.”

At least I have every right to send an elbow to a dude’s face if he gropes me back there, since there are rules against touching during private dances.

“Josie!” The club manager, an older woman who sounds like she must have smoked cigarettes since birth, barks at me as I slip inside the dressing room. I look up just in time in response to my fake name. “You’re on stage at two, then you’re on crowd duty after your song—don’t be late. You ready?”

“I am,” I say, putting my bag down. Now or never.

I strip down to my regular underwear, and replace it with my sexy stuff. I bought it all ages ago in an effort to boost my confidence, get back out there, and date after breaking up with Tim. It sat in my drawer until now, even though it looks pretty damn good, honestly. I even like the little silver pasties once I get them to stick to my nipples.

I slip out of the changing booth and sit down with my gigantic bag of makeup. I usually keep it simple, but simple doesn’t fly at Flying High Strip Club. I have my glitter, my fake lashes, my liquid lipstick, all of it.

“First night dancing, Josie?” A girl, Candy, asks, sitting at the mirrors with me.

“Yeah, it is.” I push my makeup aside to make space for hers. She doesn’t need much, but she has a ton. “I’m pretty nervous.”

“Psh, don’t be. You’ve got a hot bod and a cute personality. And a sense of rhythm.” Candy fluffs her big curly hair.

I gently dab glitter across my cheekbones, eyeing Candy. She’s really sweet, but I haven’t had the chance to talk to her much before now.

“I’m kind of nervous about private dances,” I say, swiping the excess glitter from my fingers. “What can I expect back there?”

“It pays real good, especially if you offer a special surprise, if you get me,” Candy says with a snort. “So good that some girls don’t even bother coming back. I’ve only done private dances though, nothing more. They’ve got cameras back there so the bouncers can jump in if a guy gets handsy. Some girls say there’s even another little bar back there with better liquor, but that’s just a rumor.”

So she doesn’t know about the deaths. It’s not surprising, since girls come and go all the time. But at least she gave me a thread to go off of. I draw the line at blowing strangers for justice, but I could ask some more questions if I got back there.

I notice her glancing at me with concern in the mirror, and I pop a smile back on my face.

“Red or pink lipstick?” I ask, sounding appropriately perky.

“Definitely red. You’ve got great lips.” Candy smiles again, and relief washes over me.

I make it to my call time, one of the latest ones of the night, with my confidence intact thanks to Candy. I strut out onto the platform, keeping my eyes above the heads of the men who were hooting at me. The height makes it easier, like we’re on two different planes.

Here we go.

My song comes on, slow and sultry with a pounding bass line. I grab the pole, warm from the previous girl’s dance and take my time, spinning lazily around it and tossing around my hair. My dance moves are fifty percent hair flicks when I’m not on a pole, so it’s not hard to put them in.

I mimic the moves that the other girls did, bending over to flash my panties and playing with the bottom of my negligee before peeling it off. My nerves melt away to warmth in low in my stomach that gives me a little boost of confidence. At least I’m not being booed off the stage, like some other poor girl. 

Men start throwing singles at me, yelling for me to get naked already. My heart pounds as I unhook my bra and toss it across the stage, facing away from the crowd. I do a few tricks on the pole before facing them again, the breeze on my boobs a strange feeling in a room full of people. I finally let my eyes finally drop to the crowd.

There’s the crowd I expected, the guys I’d been serving drinks to — average guys who are probably in Gotham on business trips, guys who look desperate, guys who are openly leering and groping themselves.

And then my eyes fall on Jason freaking Todd. He’s sitting at a small table in the middle of the crowd, a beer next to him. His eyes are locked on me, a smile spreading across his face.

I nearly stumble in shock, but catch myself and go twirling around the pole again. Why is he there? Clearly he has to be on a case.

_“It’s just shitty people taking advantage of women_ ,” was what he’d said the last time we met up at the diner. Was he talking about the shit happening here?

He’s obviously pleased with what he sees. His eyes make their way from my high-heeled shoes up to my face, then back down to my bare breasts. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, unconsciously.

The warmth in my belly sinks lower, between my thighs, and settles there.

Well, if I’m going to be dancing, I might as well dance for the guy I have a massive crush on. Thank god I looked at him when he looked happy to see me basically naked. I’d have lost my nerve if he looked neutral or worse.

I face him, sliding my back down the pole until my ass meets the top of my heels. I keep my knees closed and body roll back to standing. His pale blue eyes are locked on mine, so intensely that everyone else seems to disappear. He never looks at me like this. _No_ guy ever looks at me like this, like I’m practically edible. Being on stage, high above him, the bass of my song pounding, I feel powerful. I feel sexy as hell. The electricity between us is crackling.

I bend over, facing away from the crowd again, and let my panties drop to the floor. Some dancers show _everything,_ but I only feel comfortable showing whatever they could see in that moment. I look over my shoulder after shaking my ass a little and try to catch Jason’s eye. Instead, I catch some creep’s, which immediately kills the magic.

Thankfully, my song ends right after and I gather up my tips, tugging on my outfit, and rushing off the stage. The second I hit the floor, men try to get me to give them private dances. The bouncer intervenes and takes my cash, telling me I could pick up my share later that night. I duck away from the other guys, trying to find Jason. I need his help, anyway, and honestly, I want to gauge his reaction now that I’m off stage. Maybe he was looking at me like that to blend. He works in mysterious ways.

Jason finally appears, grabbing me by the wrist and putting himself between me and the men.

“Unless you’re willing to cough up a thousand dollars for a dance, all of you can back the fuck off,” Jay says.

The men disperse readily, allowing Jason to guide me toward the back by the hand. He pays the bouncer who protects the back area and leads me into one of the private rooms. It has a bench spanning the shortest wall. It looks sort of like they ripped it out of a restaurant booth and shoved it along the wall. Besides a small empty table, and another table with a speaker/mp3 player set-up, there isn’t anything else.

“Did you really give that bouncer a thousand dollars?” I ask. In the smaller room, I suddenly remember I’m pretty much naked. My cheeks flush. All of the verve I had on stage dissipate now that he’s close enough to see my stretch marks and cellulite up close.

“Yes.” Jason shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the bench before turning around to face me. “Pocket change.”

“High roller.” I cross my arms across my chest, a shield. “Why are you here?”

“Hold on. There are cameras, unsure about the audio. My phone’s doing a scan for bugs now,” he adds in impeccable French, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Ugh, why did you have to choose French?” I said, my French accent making me cringe. Bruce taught all of the Robins multiple languages. I can read and write most of them just fine, but speaking…not always, especially when I’m rusty.

“What would you prefer?” He asks.

“Spanish.” Which may or may not be because he sounds devastatingly sexy speaking French and I’m not planning on dying of pent up sexual energy today.

“Too many people here speak it.” He pauses and taking my wrist again, pulling me toward the small speaker set up in the corner. He adds in English, “Dance for me.”

I raise an eyebrow even though my body really, really likes that idea. And it’s the right move—if we’re definitely being recorded, then we couldn’t just stand around talking.

But dancing for him is easier said than done. He looks delicious tonight—a simple black t-shirt and jeans with his motorcycle boots, but they fit him in just the right way to highlight his fit form. He has tattoos that I know are fake snaking up one well-muscled arm. It’s a good look.

There’s no way I’ll be smooth about this.

He sits down on the long cushioned booth seat and check his phone. He sets it on little side table where he would probably put his drink if he had one and looks up at me, expectantly.

I break out into a sweat all over my body. He seemed happy about what I did out there, but that was with a pole. Now I just have him and whatever music I was going to play. They’d given me a little lesson on what worked and didn’t work in lap dances, but I don’t know if I can remember them with Jason’s body inches from mine.

“Any music requests?” I ask in English.

“Mm, something you really like.” He rests his hands on his thighs, his feet slightly apart.

“Okay, then.” I start scrolling through the songs, which are limited. The fast songs are a little weird to dance to in a sexy way, so I choose a slower one.

The music starts playing over the speakers, the bass rumbling. I start a few feet away from him, running my hand along the top of the bench and leaning over toward him, rolling my body to the beat. At least they dusted recently so my hand’s not gross.

“What’s your name?” He asks. I assume he means our undercover names.

“Josie. What’s yours?” I do another body roll because I can’t think of what else to do.

“Ben. Nice to meet you.” He smiles, full and charming, which makes me blush. Then I realize that he can probably see my boobs blushing, which makes things even worse.

“I liked the way you looked at me when I danced,” I say after a long pause. Might as well try to let out the truth while I’m playing someone else, because I know I’m too chicken to admit it as myself.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” His eyes follow me as I hop off the bench, winding my hips. “You’re very talented.”

I can’t stop myself from snorting, which makes him grin.

“What, you don’t believe me?” He asks.

“No one’s ever said it before.” I bend over and slide my hands up my legs until I’m standing. “Normally it’s stuff like ‘nice tits’ or whatever.”

“Well, that too.” His smile turns wolfish.

I playfully smack his shoulder and turn away, since looking at him is making me want to make very bad and impulsive decisions. But I can’t help myself and turn back around putting one hand on the wall next to his head.

“We’re good—no bugs but there’s video,” he says, glancing at his phone, then at me. Well, at my boobs since they’re in his face. “So what are you doing here, besides dancing?”

I pause, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m here to investigate the string of deaths of girls who worked here.”

“Same.” He looks me up and down. “I figured you were undercover, unless Bruce has suddenly stopped helping you guys out financially.”

I snort, slinking in front of him. I run my hands along my sides and down my hips, dropping into a close-kneed squat before standing again, my hands on his knees.

“What have you found?” I ask. I have to actually give him a dance since we’re being watched, but I can’t bring myself to get into his lap yet. I whip my hair over my shoulder and turn around, gently grazing my ass against his legs and winding my hips.

“Tonight’s my first night.” He sucks in a breath when I back up on him a little bit. “So I’ve only found you and heard some stuff that may or may not be helpful. What about you?”

“Tonight’s my first night back in the private rooms, which is where shit is supposed to be going down. I wasn’t able to get any info during my cocktail waitress shifts.” I place my hands on his shoulders and straddle his lap. He reaches up to touch my hip, but I pin his hand down. “No touching. I can touch you, but you can’t touch me.”

“We’re sticking to the rules?” He drags his eyes from my tits to my face, a dark lust coming onto his face that makes me shiver before I remember that we’re playing roles. “That’s no fun.”

“I don’t know what’ll happen if you don’t. Maybe they’ll kick you out.” I wind my hips around, my crotch not quite brushing his, before I stand up again and turn my back to him to hide my satisfied grin.

“Fair.” He sighs.

I glance over my shoulder at him, and catch him staring at my ass. Even when I catch his eye, he gives me another smirk and drums his fingers on his knees. My heart is pounding in time with the thrumming between my legs.

“What did you hear?” I ask, doing a body roll. His clear pleasure at my body makes me bolder, even if it’s just for the cameras, so I approach him again.

I really hope Babs isn’t monitoring my vitals. I mean, I don’t have any sensors on besides the ones in my earrings, but still. She can do some crazy things.

“Something about the fun being back here.” He stares up at me when I rest a palm on the bench next to his head to dance closer to him. I slide back onto his lap and grind directly onto his crotch, the bulge there rubbing up against me for the briefest moment. The friction makes me realize just how wet I’ve gotten. I hope he can’t tell.

“That’s what I heard too,” I say breathily, gracefully getting off his lap when my song ended.

God, what am I doing? I’m on a mission, not trying to get laid. He’s working too.

“So, what do you want to do?” He asks, watching me closely.

He doesn’t seem embarrassed by his boner in the slightest, which only makes my heart pound even harder. My lizard brain is telling me to go suck his dick like it’s the only thing that could save the world, but thank god my rational brain wins out. I’m a basically naked woman with a decent body shaking her ass and tits in his face. Getting a boner isn’t weird in this situation. It’s a reflex and context appropriate. I can’t read into it.

“One of the dancers said that there might be a second bar back here if you ask for a special ending.” I pretend to look for another song, when in reality I’m trying to get my heart rate under control. “So I bet you could ask the bouncer and we could see what’s there.”

“Sounds like a plan. Give me a second.” He adjusts himself in his jeans and steps out.

I flop down on the couch with a heavy sigh. My feet kill.

God, my job is weird sometimes. I’ve gotten better at following missions close-ish to the book, but Jason had thrown a wrench in my night. But hey, at least I’m giving a hot guy I know a lap dance instead of some random dude.

The door cracks open again and Jason pops his head in.

“Come on.” He jerks his head outside.

I grab his jacket and toss it over my shoulder. He takes my hand and we both follow a bouncer down the hall. There’s a door on the left that’s indistinguishable from the private dance rooms, but leads to a stairwell. We climb down several flights until we reach the bottom. The door opens to another hallway with even more doors along the way. The bouncer opens up one for us and nods.

It’s the bar within the bar that Candy mentioned. This one is much smaller, but significantly fancier. The floor isn’t sticky, and the booths are well maintained. Instead of single men scattered everywhere, there are couples — those men plus women who work here. And the women are psyched to be there, like _really_ psyched. The music is quiet, so we can hear the enthusiastic giggles of the girls.

Jason rests his hand on my lower back and pushes me inside.

“A drink for you and your date?” A bartender calls out to us.

“Uh, sure,” Jason says, wandering over to the bar and guiding me with him. He picks up the paper menu and puts it between us. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

“The margarita special,” I say, even though I shouldn’t drink on the job. It has a heart next to it on the menu, which apparently means it’s a favorite among the ladies.

Hearing him call me sweetheart, even for show, makes me flushed. Maybe I should have let him touch me during my dance.

Or maybe I could control myself on the job. Good lord.

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” Jason says.

“You sure you don’t want the Flying High? It has whiskey in it,” The bartender asks, tapping where the cocktail is listed. It has a little plane next to it, signaling that it’s a favorite among the customers.

“Nah, I’m good. Whatever the well whiskey is works,” Jason says.

“Suit yourself.”

He watches the bartender make my drink like a hawk, as did I. He doesn’t add anything that looks suspicious, thankfully — just the tequila, lime juice from a glass bottle, the orange liqueur. He pushes our drinks across the bar and Jason takes them over to a booth adjacent to one of the full tables. He hands me my drink, scooting up to my side and putting an arm around me. I know that it’s what the others are doing, but I pretend that he’s doing it because he wants to.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

I sip my margarita, expecting it to be awful but it’s delicious. Like the best I’ve ever had. Did they use fresh lime juice or something? Maybe the bartender just hit the perfect ingredient ratio. Most of the margaritas I make are for myself at home or at shitty dive bars. Who would’ve thought that this place could serve a good one?

“What do you think the deal is?” Jason asks, leaning into me.

I scan the room, taking another drink. It looks like a normal bar, except for the drastic contrast in attractiveness between the men and the women (except Jason and me, of course.) The women seem to be trying hard, but not in the way I expected they would. No, they seem to be trying hard because they want these dudes to like them. They didn’t have to. They were hand-picked by the guys.

“I don’t know, but something is off,” I say. “I can’t pinpoint what, though.”

“Agreed.” Jason nod.

He goes quiet, clearly trying to pick up on the conversations around us. I’m drawn to draining more of my drink, way too fast. It quenches my thirst the way chugging a cold drink on a hot day does. I love it.

“Is there food?” I ask. “Because I want more booze, but I don’t want to get drunk.”

“You’ve finished already?” Jason asks, looking down at my drink. He’s hardly touched his, like a responsible adult.

“It was really good.” I shrug.

“Let’s slow down some and chat. It’s close to closing anyway.” He squeezes my shoulder. “How long have you worked here, baby?”

“Not long,” I say, sliding into Josie-mode with surprising ease. It’s more palatable to flirt with him if I’m not being myself. “Are you new in town? What brought you here?”

“Nah, I’m local. I'm just killing time, but I lucked out finding you.”

I bite my bottom lip, but my smile can’t be contained. I feel a pleasant thrum and heat between my legs. No, through my whole body, like someone had turned a heater on underneath the table. It’s probably the liquor. I’m kind of a lightweight.

I look away from him so he doesn’t see how pleased I am at the sincerity in his eyes. And I land on some other dancer’s hand down a dude’s pants. Jesus. She’s practically mauling the guy, kissing him and climbing across his lap. The guy lets it happen. Even without seeing her face, I know she’s out of his league.

I peel my eyes away from the situation, hating myself for feeling something about it. Something good, in any other circumstance.But then my eyes land on some other couple sucking each other’s souls out through the mouth.

Jason notices it — he notices basically everything — but doesn’t move. He just sips his drink, studying my face for a moment. His face can be expressive as all get out, but right now I can’t tell what’s going on in his head. Is it good?

Just looking at his face is making me feel a certain way. Maybe after this, we could fool around? He has to want to bang me. He couldn’t have faked those looks he gave me when I was dancing. Right? Maybe he’s just been waiting for me to make a move. Maybe I should take a hint from these other women and just go for it.

I snuggle a little closer to him and look up into his eyes. He looks down at me, fiddling with the ends of my hair, dyed a rich brown since I hate wigs. Hair is dead, so why is that simple touch making me uncomfortably turned on? My heart is racing like I’m in the middle of a run, fast but steady. I slide my hand underneath my thigh when I almost reach for him against my own will.

I really shouldn’t have chugged that drink. Lowering my inhibitions apparently turns me into a thirst monster.

“Last call for the night,” the bartender calls.

“Shit,” Jason murmurs, looking around. “Let’s head outside with everyone else. Then we can figure out what to do.”

“Sounds good.” I hop up like I’ve just been shocked even though we don’t have to clear out quite yet.

I make my way back to the locker room behind some other girls, ignoring the ones who were macking on their gentleman of choice. With the lights up, the club looks even dirtier and weirder. Women in their full makeup and next to no clothes, or in lingerie with hoodies thrown on over them, are milling around in the back.

I throw my cropped t-shirt and high-waist leggings on and grab my things. Every single step almost makes me want to pass out from pleasure. It feels like I’ve been edging myself with my vibrator for hours — wet and swollen.

Something is wrong. Shit.

I make my way outside without spontaneously orgasming, trying to think of what this could possibly be. It has to be the drink. That lime juice might not have been lime juice at all. God, why didn’t I just stick to a well drink like Jason did? I need to get checked out, immediately.

I step outside and see Jason leaning against the wall, watching the parking lot. My intentions to tell him that shit’s awry go out of my head the instant I check him out.

I need to kiss him, so I do.

He didn’t expect it, so I easily steer him against the wall, digging my hands into his hair. It’s so soft. His mouth is so soft too. I can taste the whiskey, which would usually annoy me since I hate the stuff, but I don’t care today. I need him more than I need to fucking breathe.

He finally gets over the shock of me kissing him and kisses back, holding my face in his big hands. Normally that would be enough, just feeling him pressed up against me, but I need more. Before I realize what I’m doing, my hands are going to his belt buckle. Half of my brain screeches _we’re outside, girl!_ But another, stronger half that’s coming out more and more, tells me to keep going.

If my brain were a boat, that part would have kicked my rational half out of the captain’s seat and tied her to a pole so she could take over. I’m no longer the captain of my own brain.

“Woah, now,” Jason says with a chuckle, taking my hands in his and kissing the side of my neck. “We’re outside.”

He pulls back and looks me in the eye, suddenly freezing.

“What? What’s wrong with my eyes?” I ask, squirming to kiss him again. He holds me still by my upper arms.

“Shit,” is all he says. “We need to get you out of here.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jk, making this three chapters. This one's from Jason's POV. All the medical knowledge is probably inaccurate, but¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ it's not like the drug involved is real.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Jason_

Steph has really nice eyes but right now they’re mostly pupil, the warm brown I like so much just a thin ring around her iris.

She’s fucking _gone_ on something. She has to be. She wouldn’t come out of nowhere and kiss me like this, even though the sexual tension between us has gone through the roof.

This night had been going pretty fucking well up until now. Goddamn it.

She makes a little sound of frustration in the back of her throat and wiggles out of my grip, throwing her arms around me and kissing me again. I spin us around and pin her to the wall so she can’t move.

“You’ve been drugged, Blondie,” I say, even though she’s dyed her hair brown for this. “We need to get you back to my place to get you checked out.”

“Mm, your place?” She purrs, still wiggling. I keep my eyes on her face, but I can’t not notice the way her tits jiggle under her top out of my peripheral vision.

“Yes.”

Shit. At least this kind of explains why all of these women were all over the customers. Whatever the drug is seems to either lower inhibitions to about a negative ten billion or makes them insanely horny, or both.

I’d taken a mental note on what everyone had to drink, and the margarita that Steph had seemed to be the most popular drink for the women. That had to be it. But is this a whole separate phenomenon, or is it connected to the women’s deaths?

I don’t want to wait to find out. Thank god I’d upgraded my medical supplies and computer recently. I’ll need all of that shit.

And thank god I drove instead of taking my bike. It’s less conspicuous. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, making her squeal with what sounds like delight.

“Mm, this ass,” she says, reaching down my back. “So nice and juicy. I want to bite it.”

I adjust her on my shoulder so she can’t actually reach it, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. There’s no way she’ll keep her hands to herself on the ten minute drive to my place and I don’t want to swerve off the road because she grabbed my dick.

I hold her still with one arm and pop the trunk. I’ve got a pair of handcuffs back here that are difficult to get out of. They’ll at least deter her from trying to get me. She’s trying to break free from my gasp, flopping around like a goddamn salmon, but I’m over a half foot taller than her and stronger than most men, so I manage to wrangle her into the back seat among the random shit I have back there, her ass landing on the pillow I tossed back there to take to a different apartment I had across town.

I cuff her hands to the metal bars holding up the passenger seat headrest so I can see them and rush to the driver’s seat. I peel out of the parking lot towards my place, turning off my music so I don’t have any distractions.

“Why did you handcuff me?” She asks, her voice still the purr that made my cock twitch. “Why won’t you let me touch you? Don’t you want me? You loved my dancing.”

Fuck yeah, I loved her dancing, and fuck yeah, I want her. When I saw her up on that stage, I’d nearly lost my shit. Seeing her butt naked up on that stage was even better than every time I’d jerked off to bits and pieces of my memories of her — her curves under her body armor, her lips when they were damp from drinking, that mischevious glint she gets in her eyes sometimes.

Now I have the full picture, in HD.

She has that girl next door vibe until she opens her mouth and swears like a sailor. Throw in her cute little grins, enthusiasm for kicking ass, and her sass? Fuck.

I hesitate to say that I have a crush on her since I’m a grown ass man, but she has me feeling some sort of way that’s entirely unfamiliar. Since when have I had feelings for a woman that weren’t a) strictly sexual, or b) wildly fucked up?

Never. Except for when it comes to her.

The only reason I haven’t done anything before is because if we fucked, the nice friendship we’ve managed to build would go down in flames. I have very few friends, and know that finding a person I actually like hanging with and can actually trust is a rarity. Throwing it away would be stupid.

But I was coming pretty damn close to doing just that until I realized she was drugged.

“Answer me, Jason,” she says, blowing in my face. I press the accelerator down even farther. “I want to do so many things to you.”

A chill runs up my spine just as a flash of lust makes my cock press up against the zipper of my jeans. I want to know everything, but I can’t encourage her. And who knows if she’s even telling the truth or if it’s just the drug making her say off the wall shit?

I slow down for a moment to go around a tight curve but push the car up to its limit right after. The cheap piece of shit. I’d chosen a simple Toyota sedan and it could hardly handle going over a hundred miles per hour.

She starts to rock her hips back and forth, her breath coming in heavier pants. I swallow hard and try to make a list of things to do when we got back. Need to get a blood sample first. Need to strap her down somehow. Should I sedate her yet, or would that make things worse? I might need to ask her questions and I can’t have her all loopy.

“I wanted to suck your cock so badly back at the club,” she says, still rocking. “You were so hard and ready for it.”

I glance back for a moment to see what the hell she’s doing and see that she’s wedged the pillow she landed on between her legs to get friction where she needs it. The combination of the knowledge that she was definitely masturbating in the back of my car and hearing her say she wanted to suck me off in the back of the club turned my dick to steel despite my efforts to maintain control.

Holy fuck.

I swerve around a car and try my damndest to will this car into going faster. It’s maxed out and vibrating so hard that it seems moments from falling to pieces.

“And these handcuffs?” She asks, between heavy breaths. “Do you want to cuff me to your bed and fuck me? Do you want to make me beg for you to let me come? I want you to spank me.”

I white-knuckle the steering wheel as she starts letting out these hot little moans. They start to escalate as I make the last turn I need to do before I get home. Is she about to come? I steal a glance to make sure she’s not just hyperventilating and find her with her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open, mid-orgasm.

I’ve had a lot of weird boners in the past. Sometimes you just stumble upon something that you didn’t think you’d find hot, but you do, but by the time you finish jerking off, you feel a little weird that you found it hot. All in all, an uncomfortable situation but not actively bad.

This boner? This is weird-bad. My dick didn’t know where to go. Up? Down? To the left? Fuck.

Scratch that — if I could watch what I could see in my rearview mirror outside of this fucked up context, I’d bust a nut almost immediately.

But then her eyes open when her orgasm ends. I notice how unusually flushed and sweaty she is, and that she might fucking die if I don’t get her back and figure out what she’s been drugged with.

I go soft. Mostly.

I check on her one more time and see a flash of naked fear in her eyes. This is a woman who regularly chooses to go out and fight armed men twice her size. Not once have I seen her look terrified before, and it’s so bizarre that it makes _me_ scared. Then fucking furious.

Fuck whoever did this. I can’t even think of how terrifying all this would be if you had no idea what had happened. Taking care of the shitstains responsible is a problem for later, but it’s going to be taken care of.

Thankfully we get to my apartment building, where I own every unit. I slow down enough so we don’t go slamming into the garage door and I park haphazardly. I uncuff her from the car and re-cuff her, rushing upstairs to my medical bay.

She’s still breathing a little hard, and isn’t fighting me as much. It’s easy to put her onto the medical chair. I put straps on it just in case — sometimes when I treated Roy’s wounds, I had to keep him steady to set a broken bone, or if I had to fix my own broken whatevers, it was easier to use a strap to keep me in place.

I get her oxygen mask on first, just in case, before I turn to the next task. I gather up the materials to take a blood sample and hear her struggling against her bonds. With her hands cuffed, she can’t get out easily.

“Let me free,” She says, trying to get the oxygen mask off. Her eyes look a little less wild, but that doesn’t mean she’s in the clear.

“Stay still. I need to take your blood and get a cheek swab,” I say, finally touching her bare skin. She’s boiling hot, as I expected.

She obeys — maybe coming actually helped to take the edge off? — And I get the samples I need. While my computer analyzes it, I get as many vitals as possible on her, trying to ignore her whimpers and efforts to rub her thighs together.

Her heart rate and blood pressure are elevated. Her pupils are still dilated too. She’s running a fever, and she has a sheen of sweat over her face. Her breathing has returned to normal, more or less, so I take off her mask for a moment.

“The drinks,” she says the second she’s free. “It was the drinks.”

“I know. I’m testing your blood right now to see if there’s a clue there,” I say, checking over her skin. It looks more pink than usual.

“Fuck, I’m so horny I’m going to die,” she says, her voice breathy.

“Did that orgasm help?” I ask as clinically as possible.

“Why, do you want to help me out?” She asks before shutting her eyes and resting her head on the soft table with a thump, like she’s trying to not think about what she’s saying.

“That’s what I’m doing.” I glance back at my computer. Some things are popping up on the screen, hopefully things that’ll help.

“No, I need you to touch me,” she says, squirming. Evidently she’s not thinking that clearly, because she could probably get out if she wanted to. “But I also know that I have zero filter right now.”

“That’s true. And that’s exactly why I’m not going to touch you beyond what’s medically necessary.” I check her pupils again. Still as dilated as before. “But you can still think, despite your actions?”

“Kind of. It’s like I’m possessed but my normal brain is still in here, losing the battle.” She moans, her eyes squeezing shut. She’s sweating profusely now. “Can you untie me?”

“No, it’s better if you stay there.”

“But being tied up is turning me on.” She looks at me, her face blotchy and pink. “Do you like tying women up?”

I do, a lot, and now I _definitely_ can’t look at her without thinking of a scenario where I’d tie her up when she was stone cold sober. Maybe bent over my kitchen table. Or on my bed.

Fuck, this is not what I need to be focusing on.

I turn back to the computer and scan what’s come up. Unlike the blood samples from the tox reports of the victims, I can see a lot of shit going on in Steph’s blood. High white blood cell count, and what looks to be an allergic reaction. Her oxygen levels are getting low. I hop up and go to my medicine cabinet. Maybe an antibiotic to start, then something to calm the allergic reaction. And something to lower her fever.

I gather up everything and bring it over to her, not saying a word as I prep the IVs.

“You do, don’t you?” She grins, even as her breathing stays heavy. “I’ve never had anyone do it to me even though I’ve wanted to. Will you be my first?”

Hell, maybe I need to sedate her for both of our sakes.

I check her pulse on the monitor for a moment, and it spikes to 140. Not good. She closes her eyes, her face scrunched in pain, and starts taking little gasps of breath. _Really_ not good.

I slide the oxygen mask back onto her face, which she doesn’t try to fight, and administer the medicine. She squirms in the seat as I do, maybe because of the pain or because of the fact that she can’t get off.

Suddenly, her heart rate shoots up again, to 170, skittering and skipping. I leap into action, my hands looking like a blur. I need to get her heart rate down and steady. I need to get her fever down. This medicine needs to work faster.

“Come on, _come on_ ,” I mumble, pumping her with more drugs.

I feel helpless. What if it’s too late? What if her death is inevitable?

I watch her heart rate slowly crawl down to normal-ish again, and mine does too.

Thank fuck. I rest a hand on her bed and wait, watching her for forty-five minutes to make sure she’s okay. She’s not sleeping, but she’s restless, her eyes darting around behind her closed lids. I take another blood sample from her and pop it into my computer.

I keep an eye on every single minor shift in her vitals, only taking my eyes off of her to scan through the data my computer eventually spits out about her blood.

Whatever this drug is probably won’t kill her since I’ve intervened — her white blood cell count is down and the allergic reaction markers are back to normal. Maybe the women who danced at the club only died because they didn’t get any medical attention in time.

Shit, we’re so damn lucky that we ran into each other. She’d be dead if she ended up going with anyone else. And those pieces of shit would have taken advantage of her in an instant.

I gently touch her hair, tucking it behind her ear so it’s not plastered to her face with sweat anymore.

“Jason,” she says, her eyes opening again. I yank my hand away and shove it into my pocket. She sounds absolutely miserable, and tears start to leak out.

“Hey, it’s fine. I’ve got you,” I say softly, even though seeing her cry is making me freak out.

What else can I do to help her? I’ve been around so many emotionally constipated people for so long that the one time I actually have a burning need to comfort someone, I have no idea what to do.

“It hurts.”

“Where?”

“All over,” she says, bursting into proper tears. “My head. My torso. My freaking pussy. I hate this.”

I dry her face with a tissue and lift the oxygen mask to wipe her nose. She seems grateful, and I feel a tiny blip of happiness in this shit storm.

“I’m giving you pain meds now, which should help bring down your fever too.” I run a hand over her hair again since I can’t stop myself. “Let me help you sleep.”

She nods, and I give her some medicine that should knock her out.

Eventually she stills, her chest rising and falling calmly. Her head dips to the side as she finally falls asleep. I breathe a sigh of relief and flop back into my chair. At least she’s stable.

I suddenly feel a wave of exhaustion and check the time. It’s six in the morning? The two-ish hours we’d been here felt like nothing. I guess adrenaline rushes will do that to you.

The machines will beep if she becomes unstable, so I rest my head in my arms on my desk. I’m out almost instantly.

I sit up to find Steph trying to remove her IVs and monitors quietly, but they start to gently boop when she disconnects.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep. “Sit back down.”

Her cheeks go red. All in all, she looks a hell of a lot better than she did last night by a small fraction. She has dark circles, and she’s pale. Her eye makeup is all over her cheeks, merging with smeared lipstick. But she’s alive, and I’ve never been so glad to see her in my life.

“Um, I gotta go, though,” she says.

“I need to check you over and make sure we actually got rid of whatever was in your system.” I point to the table. “Sit.”

She slowly sits down, her eyes narrowing. I check her pupils, reattach her heart rate monitor, and take another blood sample. She’s silent the whole time, not meeting my gaze. Once my brain wakes up from sleep and gets off of “holy fuck I hope Stephanie isn’t dying in my apartment” mode, I realize that this is actually fucking awkward.

About seven hours ago, she was asking me to tie her down and fuck her after humping a pillow to orgasm in my car. And I had a boner most of that time, despite my best efforts. That doesn’t even take our flirting and sexual attention before all the shit hit the fan.

There’s no way for this to go back to normal right away. We opened a box, the shit got out, and we can’t tuck it back in, no problem. I guess we'll have to tackle that later, once things have cooled off a little.

“You look fine,” I say, clearing my throat. “Whatever it was, we got it. It looks like an allergic reaction and infection rolled into one, but I need to investigate the data from your blood sample from last night to understand more about it. If we hadn’t been here things might have gone really south.”

“Ok.” She takes off her heart rate monitor. “Um, thank you.”

“No problem.” I help her take everything else off. “You want a ride home?”

Her cheeks go even more pink, somehow. I never noticed how often she blushed until tonight. “I can take the bus. It’s okay.”

“It’s a fifteen minute walk to the closest stop. Let me take you on the bike,” I say. “It’ll be faster.”

She sighs. “Okay, fine.”

We go downstairs to my bike and hop on. She tries not to press her body to mine the whole time, but it’s hard when I zoom forward. It’s better than last night by a longshot, but her boobs pressed to my back are reminding me of everything that happened.

We get to her apartment building twenty minutes later, a big brick building that was probably updated around the eighties. She hops off the bike and yanks her helmet off, clearly trying to get as far away from me as possible. I grab the back of her t-shirt to stop her from walking away.

“Hey.” I take her wrist when she turns to look at me. Well, to look at a spot beyond my head. “Text me if you have any other symptoms. I’ll let you know what I’m going to do about the club.”

She nods, the look in her eyes hard to absorb. Embarrassment. Shame. It guts me. She’s not the kind of person to run away from her problems, so she must be feeling like shit. All I want to do is hug her or something, to make her understand that I’m not judging her for anything that she said under the influence.

But I don’t, because she pulls her wrist from my hand like she’s been shocked.

“Thanks for keeping me safe,” she says quietly before she turns and rushes inside, not looking back even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, kudos/comments/feedback are deeply appreciated, even if I don't reply!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Here's the last chapter. Also re: Tim's characterization, yikes @ he and Steph's romantic relationship dynamics -- hopefully this characterization addresses those Super Problematic Elements to their relationship. And also hope the whole thing is okay lol.

_Stephanie_

I’m managing to stay away from Jason. Well, sort of. He may or may not have tried to catch up with me on patrol a few times, but I either ignored him or gave him the slip.

I want to talk to him, but I also never want to talk about That Night. I miss hanging out with him, but the thought of awkwardness killing the relaxed, playful vibe we had is honestly depressing. I’m endlessly grateful for how he took care of me and saved my life, but the idea of saying that and more feels impossible.

So basically, I have no idea what I want, or what to do.

He’s texted a few times, though, just to update me on the case for the most part, which I appreciate. At least he hasn’t written me off.

We were both right about the drug — it was the drinks, specifically the lime juice, that had the drugs in it. It was sex pollen, basically, but Poison Ivy didn’t make it. The club owner, who had a business partner who could tinker with chemicals, made it in an effort to boost sales for their illegal sexual services.

It was supposed to be like turbo Viagra, but for some, it went into overdrive for some, like me and the victims. Apparently the chemicals the brain releases when you orgasm slow down the pollen’s attack, which explains the gap between when the women left the clients and their time of death. It also explains why I felt a little better after I…

Ugh.

Before I could go back to the club to gather more evidence, it was mysteriously firebombed (no one was inside) and the owner and his partner just happened to confess to the cops out of the blue. I actually caught the clip on TV. The owner guy had a black eye, an arm in a sling, and a walking cast.

Gee, I wonder who made him confess.

I sigh, stripping off my base layers so I can hop into the shower. It was a grimy night on patrol and I feel like I’m covered in a layer of dirt and grease. My stomach growls loudly and I press my hand to it. Usually I’d eat before coming home to shower, but today felt too gross to do that. And I haven’t gone out to eat since The Incident.

Ugh, Papi’s. So good, but lost to me forever. I can’t go back there after everything.

I put my face directly into the water stream as if it’ll help me not blush like crazy. I keep having attacks of cringe, where I think about all the shit I did that night. It really was like my rational brain was locked in the back seat while this crazy sex monster was driving us both off a cliff. The worst part was that the crazy sex monster was telling the truth. I _did_ want Jason to tie me up, spank me, and fuck me.

Too bad I humped a pillow until I came in the backseat of his car, told him all of the things I’d been fantasizing about doing with him, and almost fucking died in his apartment.

“Why!” I groan, thumping my head against the wall.

I feel the urge to let it all out and talk about it, but if I talk to myself, I’ll probably end up doing something compulsive and stupid. I need a semi-objective ear who can guide me away from the edge with minimal judgment, and I can only think of one person who fits the bill.

***

Tim’s apartment always smells like coffee, whether it’s two in the afternoon or six in the morning. We hang out pretty regularly, usually watching movies or eating something (i.e., I force feed him because he can get so wrapped up that he forgets that humans need food.) His place is stark, with only the bare minimum amount of things, like he’s halfway moved out into another place. He could make it all modern and chic, like the actual apartment building and layout are, but he hardly gives a shit about aesthetics in his personal space.

“How can you sit over there and not in front of this incredible view?” I ask, staring out of his massive floor to ceiling windows from my spot on the couch. You can see all of Gotham, and from all the way up here, it doesn’t look half bad.

“I don’t feel like moving my table,” he says, his fingers flying over his keyboard. “Almost done.”

He’s been saying that for the past half hour, but I’m used to that. If I stop him now, I won’t get his undivided attention later. Eventually he stops and gets up, rooting around the kitchen for a bit before coming back out with a fresh ginger ale for me and a can of coffee for himself. He sits cross-legged with rod-straight posture, facing me. Of all of us past Robins, Tim is somehow the most blatantly birdlike. He’s wiry and lean, but somehow, he gives off the sense that he’s always watching and will swoop down to peck your eyes out if he feels like it.

“You know it’s eight in the evening right?” I say, tapping the side of his can.

“At this point, I think I just drink it for the taste since I need a ton of coffee to actually make me feel jittery.” He cracks it open and takes a long drink. “And before you ask, I’ve been sleeping lately.”

“Good.” I snort, reaching for my phone. “Music choice?”

“Anything.” He looks me over. I remember when that look used to make me feel giggly and shy, but now it doesn’t stir much besides anxiety around what I came here to talk to him about. “You look stressed.”

“I am.” I pick a random playlist and some classic rock comes flowing out of his Bluetooth speakers.

“I’m guessing you want to talk about it?”

“It’s pretty wild.” I take a sip of the ginger ale. It’s the real, fancy stuff, so it feels like a bite on the tongue. “And has to do with my sex life. Are you fine with that?”

“Yeah.”

His face remains impassive, which could mean anything.He doesn’t really talk about sex, and never really did even when we were together. We just did it, somewhat frequently when I finally felt comfortable after having the baby and very rarely by the time we broke up for good. I have the sense that he’s still sorting out who he’s into, if he’s into anyone at all. I don’t press him on it since I know he’ll probably come to me when he does.

Also, if anyone’s going to give me advice on matters like this, it’s someone who knows me in and out and approaches everything from a super logical standpoint…generally. If his emotions aren’t too involved.

“And it has to do with Jason Todd,” I add.

That gets a reaction. A small one — a quirk of his eyebrow and a twitch of his mouth. He and Jason are like oil and water. They’ll only interact with each other if it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, they usually end up arguing. At least they don’t physically fight each other anymore.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding.

I tell him (mostly) everything in what feels like a single breath, from how Jason and I became friends, to the case, to everything I did while drugged up and finally to how Jason saved my life. Tim listens patiently, absorbing the information and processing it.

“And that’s why I’m freaking the fuck out, because I don’t want to avoid him anymore but I don’t want to face the awkwardness,” I say, slumping into the side of the couch. “I have no idea what to say.”

“Hm.” Tim nods, not taking his gaze off of me.

It’s a little off-putting even after all these years, but I know that he’s not actually concentrating on my features; he’s in his own head. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but I wait. Like a computer, he needs time to process. He suddenly gets up and walks back to his table, returning with a notepad and pen. He draws a line down the center of the page, which tells me exactly what we’re about to do.

“Pro/con list?” I ask.

“Pro/con list.” He writes ‘pro’ and ‘con’ at the top of the page. “What are the cons of reaching out to Jason again?”

“He could say he doesn’t want to be friends anymore,” I say. Tim scribbles that down. “It could be so awkward that I literally die.”

“You can’t die of embarrassment,” Tim says, dead serious, as he writes that down anyway.

“You know what I mean,” I say with a huff. “He could say that he doesn’t feel the same way as I feel.”

Tim stops writing. “So you want to actually date him? It’s not just sex?”

I nod slowly. Tim pauses for yet another long moment and shrugs, writing down “unrequited feelings” in the con column. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“What, did you think I would tell you not to?” Tim asks, a little smile appearing on his lips.

“No, I just… I don’t know.”

After we broke up for the last time and decided to be friends, I told Tim that if I wanted his input on my life and my choices, I’d come to him. He’s respected that for the past three years, which is the main reason I’m here. But old fears die hard, I guess.

“We haven’t been in a romantic relationship in years, and I know you’re fully capable of choosing men to date,” he says. “And besides, this is somehow not at all surprising to me. You two seem to fit.”

“Seriously?” The fact that he’s saying this makes me elated but also wary. “Even though you hate his guts?”

Tim waves his hand and looks at a spot beyond my shoulder like he’s trying to quickly gather his thoughts.

“I can see why you would be attracted to him physically, and personality-wise, so the fact that I don’t get along with him doesn’t matter. He cares about the city, in his own screwed up way, and has an attitude that plays well on your sassier side. Plus he’s stopped killing people.”

I grin. “So you’re giving your blessing, assuming this whole thing doesn’t go ass up?”

“Yeah. Not that you’ve ever heeded my warnings,” he says without much feeling behind it, so I know he’s not upset or annoyed. It’s a hard truth, one that brings up parts of our history we’ve worked hard to get past. “But whatever, moving on. Any more cons?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

“Okay, moving on to the pros,” he says.

“Pros are that I like him a lot and want to date him, and without saying something, he won’t know. Also, I could get this awkward weight off my shoulders if I just address the problem head-on. If he’s not into me romantically, we could at least try to be friends. I miss hanging out with him.” I swallow and resist the urge to cover my face. “And I could get laid if he’s into me too. In the way I want, if he’s interested.”

The elephant in the room that was our relationship suddenly appears again. Both of us know that I felt unsatisfied with our sex life from time to time. I wanted him to be rougher and more dominant but he was reluctant to do it, though he did kind of try by holding me down sometimes during it. He never felt comfortable or turned on by it, so I left it alone.

And then those two horrible one night stands happened, and the chemistry was so lacking that I didn’t even want to ask them for anything. One guy acted like my clit didn’t exist, and the other one was so confident (yet so awful) that I couldn’t tell him anything.

So yeah, I think I deserve to get laid with a guy I feel like I have chemistry with. Jason was a good kisser before he realized I was fucked up on something, and I don’t think it was only the drug that was making me feel that way.

Tim’s throat gets a little pink, but he doesn’t say anything. He just writes things down. He looks back down at the list.

“So, it seems like your fear is of rejection, which is normal. But why is this so awkward for you if both of you knew you weren’t in the right state of mind?” He asks, frowning. “That’s like saying you’re embarrassed about what you did on fear toxin. No one’s mind is right on fear toxin, so even if you had some horrible hallucination about bubble wrap, people wouldn’t judge you for it.”

That’s true. Hell, Jason knew better than most at how powerful that drug was. So yeah, why am I so mortified?

Tim lets me think about it for a second, draining his coffee. Maybe it’s mortifying because I was too open and intense, and when it comes to dating and sex, that’s gotten me into trouble. I’d thrown myself at Dean, and that definitely didn’t end well. I’d pursued Tim with almost an idiotic intensity, which both broke my heart and made me feel a little self-conscious about my kinkier desires, even though Tim definitely didn’t intend to make me feel like that.

But I’m not a teenager with shit to prove anymore. I’m an adult with a fully developed brain and life experience that tells me what I want and don’t want. Jason has what I want, and he knows that I wasn’t in the right frame of mind when I said all of those entirely true things. If I’m open about what I want, I might get hurt, but I can move past it with a little more wisdom and time. I’d done that with Tim, and against the odds, here we are — two grown-ass humans in a healthy friendship.

“I’m going to text him,” I say, whipping my phone out of my hoodie pocket. “I’m just going to be honest with him, and if shit goes sideways, I’ll be able to work through it.”

Hopefully.

***

Jason and I are supposed to meet here at Papi’s. I’m too early. I shouldn’t drink coffee because I’m already a little nervous, but I can’t help myself.

Right on time, Jason comes through the door. Oh god. I want to puke. I’ve seen people barf in here, but I don’t want to be one of them. I chug some water and take a deep breath. I’ve got this. I just need to be honest, and if he’s not feeling it… well, it won’t be fine, but it’ll be okay.

“Thanks for coming,” I say quietly as Jason slides into our regular booth at Papi’s.

“I’ve been waiting for you to reach out to me,” he replies, looking me over. “Back to blonde?”

“Oh, yeah.” I touch my hair. “Felt weird as a brunette.”

“You’ve got a blonde vibe. Not in a bad way — just in a girl next door kind of way.” He smiles, almost shyly, as he takes off his leather jacket. “Until you start talking.”

“Then what am I?” I ask, smiling despite my nerves.

“You’re you.” He leans back in the booth, the smile not fading, but changing a little.

We order before I can think too hard about what that means. The waiter slides coffee onto the table moments later. We don’t speak for a bit.

“So, what changed?” He finally asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I know what he means.

“Why’d you finally reach out to me after you’ve been jumping off of buildings and shit to avoid me for two weeks?” He sips his coffee, not taking his eyes off me. God, his eyes should be considered weapons.

“I just realized I missed hanging out with you,” I say, holding my breath until I can see how he reacts. “And that we should talk.”

“I missed hanging out with you too,” he says.

He looks relieved. Relieved! Did he think I hated him or something, even after he seriously saved my ass in every way? How had that thought not even cross my mind? God, I’m such an asshole.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at the table.

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” He snorts. “It was fucking awkward, so no wonder you didn’t want to talk about it.”

I cover my face and lean my elbows on the table, releasing a groan. Now that the time to discuss it is here, I’ve lost all my nerve.

“C’mon, we gotta get it out of the way. Might as well do it now.” He takes my wrist and pulls it away to uncover my face. He holds onto it a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re right.” I let my other hand fall from my face. I take a long drink and take a deep breath. “I know why it was awkward for me, but how was it for you?”

Unlike Tim, Jason’s face can tell a whole story if he wants. Now his face is telling the story of that night, clearly with a mixture of embarrassment, general discomfort, and what looks a little like fear.

“I was torn. I was terrified that you were going to die on my watch, which I couldn’t let happen, but at the same time, I was turned on by what was happening just as a reflex. But you weren’t in control of your actions, which was why I felt bad about it,” he says, his expression turning thoughtful.

“But you never touched me inappropriately.”

“I know. I’d fucking ki —” He pauses, laughing bitterly. “I would rough up anyone who tried to hurt you like that when you were vulnerable. It’s more of a matter of consent. It was like I was creeping on your privacy, and I hate that.”

My heart flutters hearing that. I know he’s done some bad things, but at his core, there’s this decent man who most people don’t get to see.

We don’t speak for a while, which allows me to gather my thoughts.

“But you had to keep an eye on me while I was blabbering on about my deepest desires. Like, I’d die if you didn’t,” I point out. “What would you have done differently if I were drugged with fear toxin or whatever?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Exactly.”

He makes a little sound of understanding. “You’re right. I guess we should try to move past it and the awkwardness.”

He sits back in his seat so the waiter can drop our food off. We start eating, and the bliss of food makes me feel infinitely better. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Or maybe it’s the fact that we’ve gotten over the most uncomfortable part of the conversation that’s making me relax.

“How do you propose we do that?” I ask once we’ve gotten through a lot of our food.

“Purposefully overriding whatever the awkward thing was with a different, similar memory. So for instance, there was the time that I got so shit-faced that I puked on Roy, so we had another night out at the same place, but I kept my ass under control.” He shrugs.

“So in our case, we would…”

“Create fun sex memories? Yeah.” His eyes don’t leave mine, even as I blink a few times. “That’s the way. If you want to, of course.”

We look at each other, neither of us daring to speak. Honestly, I’m kind of surprised but turned on at his forwardness.

He wants me, at least in a sexual way. I feel like leaping out of the booth and doing backflips, but I keep myself under control. Ok, mostly. I can’t help my goofy smile.

Finally, he breaks into a grin that probably takes a couple minutes off my life, based on the way my heart skips violently. He’s so goddamn handsome.

“What, you’re surprised that I asked?” He laughs. “Why?”

“I’m not that surprised,” I say. “I saw the way you looked at me at the club. And I basically gave you an outline of what I want to do in the backseat of your car so you’ve got a head start.”

His smile widens. “Well, true, but I would have asked about rewriting those old memories whether I knew what you were interested in or not.”

I push my food around my plate, knowing what I need to bring up next. My smile fades a little bit.

“I’m also wondering about your non-sexy feelings,” I add with a heavy breath.

This time, he’s the one looking at his food as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. I stare back down at my plate too.

Oh god, I fucked this up. He doesn’t feel the same way. He just wants to bone me. Now I want to crawl under this table and fucking die. The longest pause in the world passes between us.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he says with a sigh.

“Just forget I said anything. We could just hook up and maybe stay —”

“No, Jesus, relax, Blondie.” He drops his fork again, his face red. “I don’t want to disappoint you because I’ve never liked anyone the way I like you and I don’t know how you feel.”

Talk about emotional whiplash. It must have taken him a lot of courage to come out and say that, especially taking the emotional constipation he grew up with into account. I stare at him in borderline awe, feeling butterflies in my chest, until I realize that I should actually say something.

“I like you too,” I say so quietly that I’m worried he won’t hear me.

He looks just as surprised as I feel, which makes me laugh. He snorts, and before long, we’re both laughing so much that someone across the aisle tells us to shut the fuck up. Jason shoots him a glare and the man turns back to his food.

A tension between us that I hadn’t looked at directly melts away into a good vibe. God, it feels so good to say that, and for him to feel the same way. I came in here prepared for the worst, but this is better than I could have ever imagined — quick and to the point instead of dumb dancing around the topic and hoping the other person breaks first.

“So, now what?” He asks, a rare look of true confusion on his face. “Do I take you out on dates or whatever? I wasn’t kidding when I said I was scared of disappointing you. I’ve never done this before. At least I know you feel the same way so I feel less terrified.”

“We can just do what we’ve been doing, but not just at Papi’s. Plus physical affection like cuddling, and emotional stuff,” I say. “We can take it slow. It doesn’t have to be some grand, official production.”

“Does taking it slow include a lot of fucking?”

I nod, and that makes the heat in his eyes that I’d seen at the club come back. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to hop on a rollercoaster — pumped, but also definitely scared and feeling close to death even though I’m not.

“So what are we doing here, then?” He asks, looking me up and down. “Why aren’t we back at your place or my place?”

“Because we need to eat,” I say, shoveling food into my face until I’m full. “I’m done.”

“Me too,” he says after somehow slamming a steak and the rest of his fried eggs like it’s popcorn. He pays for us. “Let’s go. Yours or mine?”

My apartment’s a fucking wreck, as usual. “Yours, please.”

We hop on his bike, and he zooms back to his place. I loosely remember what it looked like on the outside, but inside, I don’t. He takes me into his actual apartment, which looks surprisingly lived-in and cozy.

It smells good, kind of like where the back of his neck met his leather jacket minus post-patrol sweat (which I unabashedly sniffed on the ride over — how does he smell so nice, even after patrol?). There’s a big couch, also made of leather, in the middle of the room with a red throw blanket, a small TV, and a big bookcase. There’s even art on the walls, tasteful but unique. It’s surprisingly him in a way I wouldn’t have expected.

“Nice place,” I say, kicking off my shoes next to his.

“Thanks. It’s nice to have a comfortable place to call home.” He tosses his keys on the little table in the entryway. “You want to shower?”

“Oh god, please. I was worried that I’d have to ask,” I say with a laugh. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“C’mon.”

He takes my hand and walks me past his kitchen, which is spotless, and past a door that’s open a smidge that must be his bedroom. He pushes open the last door and I’m struck speechless.

“This is the best bathroom I’ve ever seen in my life,” I say, taking a step in.

It’s massive — like, triple the size of my little bathroom. Everything is white and clean and fresh-smelling. He has one of those super deep bathtubs _and_ a huge shower with multiple heads. If I ever have to move out, I’d happily move right in here — just in the bathroom.

“Thanks.” He opens a closet and pulls out two towels. “Want company?”

I nod. His shower’s big enough for at least five people, so it won’t be like the weird awkward shuffling of my romantic showers of the past. Another difference is the fact that I’m kind of grimy so I actually need to clean up.

Jason leans into the shower and gets the water going, testing the temperature. I test it too, and it’s perfectly hot. The pressure is way, way better than at my place.

I start to strip off my base layers, cringing at my sweaty kevlar scent. I usually leave my stuff on the floor, but this bathroom is too pretty. Once I’m down to my (least sexy) sports bra and panties that are allegedly sweat-wicking, I fold up my base layers and place them gently on the ground.

“The ground’s not going to blow up if you drop clothes on it, babe,” he says with a snort. I see his shirt go flying past me and into the hamper, followed by his pants.

There’s a comeback on the tip of my tongue, but my mind goes blank when I turn around and see Jason’s naked ass. God _damn._ He’s like a work of art.

“You coming?” He steps under the water, sighing. He runs his hands through his hair, which does amazing things to the muscles on his back. I whip off the rest of my clothes and follow him into the shower.

The hot water is pure bliss on my tired muscles. One showerhead makes it rain water down on top of my head, and the two others are pointed at my front and back. The water underneath our feet is dark with dust and soot and gunpowder.

I finally let my eyes scan over his front as he does the same for me. His skin is strangely lacking in scars, and the one he does have are fairly new. I guess it’s from the whole coming back to life thing. He has a light dusting of dark chest hair trailing lower and lower until it reaches his dick. Hell, even that looks perfect and he’s only a little hard. I bet it’ll be even nice when he’s fully good to go.

“Like what you see?” He asks, a cocky grin coming onto his face.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I do too.” He pushes some wet hair out of my face and kisses me, holding my chin in his hand.

Yeah, his kissing skills are definitely as good as I remember. No, even better since I’m in a healthy state of mind. I slide my hands up his damp chest and around the back of his neck, pressing my body against his. His arms go around me easily. I like feeling of his big hands on my back, but the closer he is, the more I’m reminded that I actually need to shower.

“Hey, as much as I like kissing you, I’m a little gross from patrol,” I say, pulling back. “Mind if we get some soap in here?”

“Yeah, sure.” He reaches behind me and grabs a bottle of soap and a fluffy washcloth. “Plus we should sort some things out before all the blood rushes from my brain to my dick.”

“Like what?” I ask, taking his soap.

“What you’re down for and what you aren’t,” he says, watching as I soap up my chest. “For instance, you might not want me to touch your feet or you might really want me to put a finger up your ass.”

“Oh, so like kinks and stuff?” I ask, my voice cracking when I say ‘kinks’ like I’m a teenage boy. Could I be any more awkward?

“If you have any.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s easier to say what you definitely don’t want first.”

I pause to think, realizing that I hardly have any experience doing anything besides the basic making out to oral to dick-in-vagina routine. It’s funny because in my head, I’m fantasizing about shit that’s a lot crazier. But not too crazy.

He hasn’t judged me for any of the shit that’s come out of my mouth up until now, so I tell him everything I’m curious about and everything I’d rather avoid, and he does the same. The excited look in his eye when he realizes that at least we align on paper turns my anticipation into that rollercoaster ride kind of nervous.

He guides me to his bedroom after we finish our shower, a hand on my lower back. His bed is neatly made, a nice frame with a metal head- and footboard. His dirty clothes are piled up in a hamper in the corner instead of the floor. His side table has a couple books, a lamp and a glass of water on it, but that’s it. It looks like the kind of room that’s pitch black at night, but in the light of the early morning, there’s a soft glow coming through where his curtains don’t quite cover.

“Sit down,” he says, giving me a light push. I do as he says, resting delicately on the edge of his bed. “You remember your safe words?”

“Yes. Yellow to slow down, red to stop.” I glance over my shoulder to see where he’s going.

“Keep your eyes on the wall in front of you,” he says.

Of course, that makes me want to look over my shoulder to see what he’s doing, but I behave. I hear him open his closet and shuffle around, mumbling to himself. He finally makes a sound like he’s finally found it and puts the things on his side table. I want to look so bad.

He walks back around to my front and stands in front of me, now wearing a pair of black boxers. I glance up at him through my lashes, my fingers twitching on my lap to touch him through the fabric. But no — he’s in charge. That much was clear. He wanted control, and more than anyone I could possibly sleep with, I trust him enough to give it to him. He’ll take care of me. I don’t have to think at all, which is a bit of a relief. I don’t have to perform.

He puts two fingers under my chin and tilts my face up to kiss me. It’s way too short. I love kissing, and I’m completely sure I could kiss him forever. I let out a small whine when he pulls back.

“What, you want more?” He asks. I nod, and he grins. “Nah.”

“You’re an ass,” I say with a huff.

“Might want to hold in that sass, Blondie. You might get punished for it.” He waves for me to move. “Scoot up to the middle of the bed.”

I slide backward until I’m sitting where he told me to. He comes around the side and pushes me onto my back, taking my wrists and guiding them over my head. He loops rope made of soft red cotton (very different from some of the rope I’ve been tied up with by in non-sexy situations) around my wrists and ties each one to metal slats in his headboard. My body’s stretched out like a Y, forcing my back to arch a tiny bit.

“Very nice,” he murmurs, picking something else off of his side table. “Blindfold.”

He slides a blindfold over my eyes, making everything go extremely dark. My heart rate spikes when I instinctively pull against my arm restraints to adjust the mask. With my vision gone, all my other senses are heightened. I can hear Jason’s breathing and smell the pleasant masculine scent of his pillows mixed with detergent. I squirm against his soft sheets, rubbing my thighs together. When is he going to touch me?

Instead of going for one of my sweet spots, he grabs one of my feet and starts giving me the best massage I’ve ever had in my life, pressing his thumb in a spot that shoots tingles of pleasure up my leg. I groan, nervous tension melting away. He doesn’t make a sound as he massages his way down my foot, and up my calf, then to my other foot and up that calf. His hands are massive on me, so he doesn’t miss a single spot.

When his hands start on my thighs, I unabashedly open my legs. He chuckles and starts working his way up to the spot where I want his touch. But of course, he skips over that part entirely and does my other thigh. What a fucking tease. Just the feeling of his hands on my flesh is driving me nuts and he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

His bare chest brushes against mine as his mouth skims up my body. And then, his mouth is on my left nipple and I arch into his touch.

“Fuck, oh my god,” I groan, my arms tugging against my restraints.

I want to touch his hair. I want my hands on him, anywhere. I never realized how handsy I was in bed until I couldn’t use my hands. Jason though, he’s using his hands in the best ways. He kneads the breast that isn’t being treated with his mouth in his big hand, a little rough but not so much that it hurts in a bad way. It feels like he’s worshipping me. I really shouldn’t have agreed to this blindfold because I need images to go along with these feelings.

“You have such nice tits,” he says, his mouth smacking off of my nipple with a pop. “Do you know how hard you made me when you were up on that stage, taking off that little nightgown? Or in the back room? I wanted to take you right then.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let me touch you in the private room,” I say, gasping when he moves to my other breast. “You played yourself.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He sits up off of me, laughter in his voice. “You were the one who enforced that no touching rule.”

“Um…” I bite my bottom lip. “I was undercover?”

“Yeah, sure, Blondie.” He hops off the bed again. “I think that means I need to take things up another notch.”

Anxiety rises in my chest, even though he won’t push me past my limits. A few moments later, he’s bending my leg, the back of my calf pressed to the back of my thigh, and tying a rope around my leg to keep it like that. He does that to my other leg, spreading me wide open. He adds yet another rope around my waist and ties my tied-up legs to that.

There’s no way my legs are closing. Being so exposed to him, vulnerable to his every whim, makes me clench a little. He’s drawing out the whole process on purpose, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to be patient. I’m soaking wet, and the fact that he can see it only makes the situation worse. I need him, now.

“Damn, that’s a nice view,” he says, his voice thick.

The bed dips when he sits down.He rests his hand on my mound, running his thumb along the upper cleft of my lips. My body jerks a little bit at the feeling, as if I can do anything about where he touches me and when. His fingers lazily explore my pussy, like he’s trying to learn and understand my body. I wiggle my hips as much as I can until he puts a hand on my stomach to hold me still.

He laughs under his breath when I whine a little, right as he slides one long finger into me. It manages to hit every sensitive spot inside me _just_ a little bit, and when he starts to rub my clit too, I’m nearly done. He works me up and up, and right when I start to tremble, he pulls away. And he does it again. And again.

“Please let me come,” I say. No, beg. I’ve never heard my voice sound this way.

“No, not yet,” he says while doing a thing with his finger that _really, really_ makes me want to come. “Not until I say you can.”

“ _Please._ ”

“Nope.”

I focus on any part of my body except for my pussy — but that doesn’t work. The only thing that does is him stopping. I think he’s finally stopping his pleasure-torture, but instead, he slides his hands under my butt to bring his mouth down between my legs.

I want to tell him he’s an asshole for doing this to me, but I can’t speak. I let out a loud, breathy moan, my body twitching in its confines. My hips wind in his grip, which makes him hold on so tightly that it hurts a little, a pain almost instantly melts away into arousal. My climax starts to barrel down on me and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. Thankfully he pulls away for a second and gives me permission to let go.

I come so hard that my ears start to ring a little bit — every nerve in my body from my head to my toes lights up.

Okay, yet another shift in my opinion on my blindfold. Not being able to see makes every other sensation eighty times more powerful, and not being able to move makes the feelings bounce around like electricity inside my frame for what feels like forever. I start coming back down slowly, my breasts heaving like I’ve just run a marathon, when he sucks my clit into his mouth _just_ so to send me over the edge again.

“You’re going to kill me,” I say when I regain my ability to think.

“Not if you kill me first. For the second time,” he says, yanking off my blindfold. “I ought to fucking spank you for looking so goddamn sexy like this.”

“Punishing sexiness? That doesn’t seem fair,” I say, blinking to adjust to the light in the room. I crane my neck up to look at him and get an eyeful of his hard-on. It looks massive underneath his boxers and I’m dying to pull them down. What’s the fun of me being the only one to get off?

“Yeah, I know, but I mostly want to get handfuls of that ass.”

He frees both of my hands and kisses me with such an intense passion that I’m knocked flat on my back. I dig my hands into his hair and try to grind against him before realizing that I can yank his boxers down and finally touch his cock. I squeeze his firm, muscular ass in one hand and take his cock in the other. He lets out the most delicious moan I’ve ever heard, gasping when I start to stroke him. I love making him nearly come undone with just one hand. He’s so insanely hard. I swivel my hand in just the right way to make him swear and thrust into my fist.

“Ah, fuck it, we’ve got all night.” He yanks open his side table, his body laying over mine, and pulls out a condom. “I can’t draw this out any longer. I’ve been waiting to fuck you forever and I don’t think I can hang on through a spanking if you’re squirming all over my lap.”

I grin. I want to see what being spanked is like, but he’s right — we don’t need to do everything in one session. I sit up on my elbows so I can see him. His cheeks are flushed and he’s fumbling a little bit with the condom wrapper. He slows down a little and finally gets it open, rolling it on.

“So you tied me up when in reality, you’re the one who can barely contain yourself?” I ask. Not that I’m mad about it — the fact that I’m making him lose control is hot as fuck.

“Considering the situation we’re in, I’m not going to make any witty comebacks.” He slides his hands under my butt again, lifting my lower half a little bit.

He thrust inside me to the hilt right away, making me gasp. It’s that pain-pleasure that I’m already starting to crave. I feel stuffed and stretched.

“Shit, that’s a lot,” I blurt, clutching his shoulders. I dig my nails into his skin a little bit, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You alright?” He asks after a moment or two. Speaking seems to be difficult for him, so I purposefully tighten my pussy around him a little bit just to get a rise out of him. “Jesus _fuck_ , you’re going to make me come too fast.”

He pulls out a little bit until part of his cock brushes against a spot that makes my eyes almost cross.

“Can I come?” I ask, even though I’m nowhere close yet. I just know I will be.

“Already, princess?” He asks, laughing. “I’ve barely started.”

“I’m asking while I still have the ability to put together a sentence.”

“Come whenever you want.”

He starts to move, steadily thrusting in and out. His hands are braced on either side of my head, so I get a nice little show, seeing his sculpted arms and his face, framed by his damp hair, at the same time. His eyes are closed, so I can stare at him without feeling weird about it. God, he’s so…well, Jason. A bunch of contrasts that come together into one gorgeous package — his rough stubble, a scar across his eyebrow, his long lashes, his soft lips.

I slide my arms up around the back of his neck and pull him down for a kiss. He seems surprised that I’m doing it, but soon the kisses meld with our fucking — my hips rock up against his, and his hand threads into my hair. I close my thighs around him as much as I can, trying to urge him to go faster.

“Touch yourself,” he says, grabbing my hand and shoving it between us. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rub my clit in fast little circles that get me off every time and quickly feel myself climbing yet again. I come, and with him inside me, it feels like everything is so much deeper and stronger than before. He sucks in a pained breath as I twitch and shake under him.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he says, thrusting a little more before he pulls out and flips me onto my stomach.

He props my hips up and glides right back in, hitting me _deep_. I grip the sheets hard as he pounds into me, his hands on my waist. I can tell he’s getting close from the way his breath stutters and hitches. He squeezes me tighter and moans, his forehead coming to rest on my back. I feel his cock jerk inside me a few times before he goes a little slack.

He doesn’t let himself rest, though — he pulls out, tosses the condom in the trash, and starts untying me. He looks just as dazed as I feel, cheeks flushed and a lazy smile on his face. Once I’m fully untied, he helps me stretch out my legs and checks me over for rope burn. It’s sweet, especially considering how much shit my body gets put through on a day to day basis. Even if I did have rope burn or bruises, they wouldn’t be a big deal.

“You good?” He asks, sitting back down on the bed.

“My whole body feels kind of numb in a good way and I got nailed into next week. I’m better than good.” I stretch out on the bed. “You?”

“Same.” Despite his tired posture, he doesn’t move to lay down.

“Are you anti-cuddling?” I ask, reaching for him.

“No…” He slowly crawls further onto the bed. “I’ve just never done it before.”

“That’s a damn shame because you’re so cuddly. Come here.” I open my arms.

“I’m cuddly?” He laughs. “Sure.”

“Well, if you’ve never cuddled, how can you know?” I wave my arms toward him. “Let me take your cuddle virginity.”

He slowly lays down, facing me like he isn’t sure if he’s doing this right. It’s adorable and makes me want to kiss him all over his face.

“The bed’s not going to blow up if you lay down too hard,” I tease, leaning in for a quick kiss.

I slide an arm under his and throw my leg over his hip, snuggling right under his chin. His broad chest is perfectly warm and soft, and I’m getting his wonderful scent all up in my nose. He catches on quickly and slides an arm around my back, tugging me closer so his chin is resting on top of my head.

We go quiet for a bit, our breath syncing up. This is absolute perfection.

“‘M I doing this right?” Jason asks, sounding right on the edges of sleep.

“You’re doing great,” I say, feeling myself sliding off to sleep too.

“Let’s rest for just a minute,” he mumbles. “Then more fuckin’.”

I grin. He’s going to be passed out for hours, I can already tell.

“Sure thing, babe,” I say, closing my eyes and finally letting myself sleep in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading/commenting/kudo-ing!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated, even if I don't get the chance to respond!


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